Smashed
by pathera
Summary: Previously Hate, Oh, How It Burns. Shawn tries not to hate but he sometimes loses the battle. And when Shawn loses the battle he does what he does best: he runs, leaving Gus to chase after him. GusShawn slash, rated for language and possibly other things.
1. Prologue

A/N: This was intended to be the first chapter of a multi-chaptered fic, but I kind of like it as a one-shot. I do still have ideas for continuing it, or possibly writing a sequal/companion, but that's up to whether or not people like it. So, if you want me to write more drop me a review (which I hope you do anyway) and enjoy! There might be some grammatical or spelling errors, which I take full responsibility for, and I'm sorry if any of the characters (especially Shawn) seem OOC. I was took a few liberties. I'm also sorry if this in anyway resembles any other "Shawn-arrested-by-his-dad" fics that are out there, because I have read a few fantastic ones that may have influenced this, though I tried my best to make this as original as I could. Please, review (and tell me if you want more)!

Disclaimer: USA owns Psych.

Warning: It's rated for language, and could _possibly _be construed at Shawn/Gus if you squint, and may become Shawn/Gus if I continue it. As of the moment, though, it can be read just as Shawn/Gus friendship.

Smashed

_Prologue_

_Santa Barbara, 1995_

Shawn Spencer had never hated anything in his life before. It wasn't really in his nature. He was too bubbly; too happy to be alive to waste moments of his time hating. There was too much to do and hatred took far too much energy. He disliked things—people, places—but he had never hated before.

There was a first time for everything, he supposed. And, as Shawn shuffled out of the jail cell—his arms wrapped tightly around his chest, his head down, his hair mussed in an unfashionable manner, and his eyes red and puffy—he hated the police officer who stood to the side with every fiber of his essence. The man's eyes—those cold, self-righteous, judging eyes—burned into him. Shawn didn't look up as he passed, not even to glare, not even to spit, not even to curse. His every hair stood on end and he felt as tightly-wound as a wind-up toy before it is let loose.

_God, I hate you_, Shawn repeated the mantra in his mind. He would not look up at the man who called himself his father. Looking up, meeting that gaze, _that _gaze that Shawn knew and hated, yes _hated _so, would be giving in, would be letting the man—the man who didn't deserve the title father—win. Shawn had been letting him win for years, letting himself be molded into some tool, some dog-and-pony show that his father trotted out for police gatherings and stuffed back into the closet as soon as the observers were gone.

Until last night Shawn had been a promising high school graduate, with a bright future in the police academy. They, the collective _them_, all said that he would make a fantastic cop someday, as soon as he realized that his unique talents could help solve crimes; could help save people.

Fuck _them_.

That was Shawn's new motto. Before it had been something akin to: Goof off, have fun, but don't go too far over the line. That had been effectively killed by _that man_. Good, obedient Shawn, who played pranks to make people laugh—the Shawn who got into trouble because he was curious and didn't have enough common sense to keep himself out of trouble, and not because he had malicious intentions—was dead. Dead, dead, dead and buried in the ground. No, dead and laying at the feet of _that man_, his blood painting _that man's _hand's red. That Shawn was gone.

Shawn could hear the heavy footsteps following after him, a thud, thud, thud like the beating of a stone heart. A broken heart. Shawn's hands fell to his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He headed for the doors, for the bright sunlight that beamed outside, for a bright cheery world that would have been perfect for Old Shawn. New Shawn suddenly craved the warmth and the bright and quickened his pace, hoping that the sunlight would strike down his nightmares and the dark things that were dogging his steps. He burst into the new world, or was it the same world and only he was different?

It was a little better outside, where the sun was warm but not yet hot—it would reach hot, hot, burning hot later in the day—and the breeze was a cool kiss. It was a perfect day. But Shawn felt dark and sick and hate, hate burned inside him, bile in the back of his throat; a throbbing pain in his brain. He turned towards the road.

"Shawn," _that man's _voice cut through the day and it seemed to cast a shadow for miles around. "The truck isn't that way."

Shawn didn't pause, though his steps slowed. "I'm not going to the truck." His voice wasn't like Old Shawn's. It was lower and darker than Old Shawn's voice had ever been. He heard, _heard_ the disappointed, angry cluck of _that man_.

"You still haven't learned your lesson, have you Shawn? Gonna go off and pout, like a little girl?" _That man's _voice was mocking and the words struck deep. They would have sent Old Shawn reeling, as though the ground had been pulled out from under his feet. But New Shawn expected them.

"Oh, I've learned a lesson. A couple of them actually." Shawn paused, swinging around to stare at _that man _with his bloodshot eyes. "I learned that I hate you, for one." _That man _flinched a little, just a little Shawn thought, but otherwise showed no emotion. Shawn had never said that he hated him before. It had always been hard to say 'I hate you' to a man who might not come home from his next work day. "I learned that power, power that a cop—an officer of the law—has, is so easily abused. Abused. How does that word sit with you, huh Dad?"

_That man's _face was starting to take on an angry tomato red color, a key sign that his temper was about to snap. He opened his mouth, taking in a deep breath to yell. "Sha—," he began, his voice climbing in octave and volume.

Old Shawn had never cursed at his father. Around his father, sure, but at? Never. New Shawn had none of Old Shawn's qualms. "Fuck you, Dad," he shot out, spinning away. _That man's _mouth snapped closed, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.

"Fine!" _That man _roared. "You can walk home, Shawn! And when you get there, you're grounded! No cars, no girls, no Gus, no tv, no nothing! Grounded!" He bellowed after his son. Shawn didn't look back.

Half an hour later Burton Guster open his door to discover a rather worse-for-the-wear Shawn with a black backpack slung over one shoulder. Shawn's eyes were feverish and red, his hair hadn't been brushed, his clothes were rumpled; he looked like hell. Gus took one look at him and stepped to the side, letting his friend in and catching him when he stumbled.

"What the hell happened, Shawn?"

Shawn smiled. In all the years he had known Shawn, Gus had never seen a smile look so disturbing on his friend's face. It simply did not look right, and smiles always looked right on Shawn. It was when he was not smiling that something was wrong. But this smile was crazed, as feverish as his eyes, and his chapped lips cracked, bleeding. "He arrested me," Shawn said.

Silence fell as Gus tried to wrap his mind around those three simple words. Then, like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, he skillfully pulled the entire story out of his best friend.

"Then I told him to fuck off and I hitch-hiked home," Shawn concluded. Gus rocked back on his bed, his eyes focusing on a trophy sitting on his dresser. He couldn't even remember what he'd won it for, not that it mattered. In the awkward silence Shawn whispered something that scared, truly _scared _Gus.

"I hate him." It was quiet, so quiet, and Shawn was _never _that quiet. "I _hate _him."

Shawn wasn't supposed to hate. He was too good, too alive. He had too much potential to hate. Gus would never tell him, but he secretly saw Shawn in an almost god-like way. Shawn was superior, despite his flaws; in fact, because of his flaws. He was so far above the rest. If Shawn had asked him to pick up a knife and stab himself, Gus would have done it, for Shawn and only for Shawn. Shawn—who he would do almost anything for—wasn't supposed to hate.

His frenzied eyes—eyes that were green and brown and gold and right now, right now, where just mud with fever and hurt and hate, _hate_—turned towards Gus. "I need to go. I need to get out of here. I," he licked his lips, "I can't stay."

Gus understood. He knew. He was fluent in the secret language of Shawn, and he knew exactly what Shawn was saying, was asking. He stood up and crossed the room, pulling open his closet and grabbing a duffel bag. He paused to look over his shoulder. "Where are we going?"

Shawn smiled, and this time it was not so frightening, not so dangerous. This time it was Old Shawn and New Shawn smiling at the same time. "Mexico?"


	2. Chapter One

A/N: So, I decided to continue this and felt that it needed a name change in order to fit the directions that it's probably going to go in. Once again, I'm sorry if my characters are out-of-character and if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes. I'm trying my best. My writing style might change in the middle of this chapter because I wrote the first half and then wrote the second half later; my writing seems to change with whatever mood I'm in. I know that there's a lot of Shawn in this chapter but the next chapter--which should be out soon, since I'm almost done writing it--has plenty of Gus in it. For the record this is Gus/Shawn slash, so if you don't like it, don't read it. It is an established relationship but they aren't "out" to anyone except Henry and Gus' parents, though everyone has suspicions. One more thing: I know that Henry probably comes off as a total bitch but I don't mean to make him a complete antagonist. I'll get into his motives for saying what he says later, but keep in mind that I don't hate him and he's not supposed to be a villain. Remember, reviews are love.

Disclaimer: PsychUSA. 'Nough said.

_Chapter One_

Shawn couldn't stand hospitals. He wouldn't say that he hated them, because Shawn tried his very hardest not to hate, not to hate, not to hate. But he couldn't stand hospitals: the clean, ammonia, disinfectant smell; the sterile, bleach white; the food not worthy of a pig trough; the starchy sheets; the waiting, the waiting, the waiting; the pain, the hurt, the grief; the pure raw emotion. The only thing that Shawn liked about hospitals was morphine, and only because that dulled the world and gave everything a golden glow, and who didn't like something that was surrounded by a golden glow?

For all his dislike of them Shawn spent a tremendous amount of time in hospitals. At the local hospital he knew the name of most of the doctors, all of the nurses, and was privy to the inside gossip of the hospital. Ninety-nine percent of the time a trip to the hospital was for Shawn, and those few one percent trips Shawn dearly wished that they were gathered in the sterile waiting room because of him and not someone else.

As Shawn sat in his hospital bed, letting the golden glow of the painkillers seep away and leave him in cold darkness, Shawn wished that his seventeen stitches, cracked rib, and assorted bruises and abrasions were the extent of their problems. He wished as he had never wished before that Lassiter was not three floors above him in surgery, fighting for his life.

And it was all Shawn's fault.

Not that any of them—the them being Gus, Juliet, and Chief Vick—had come right out and said that it was his fault. But he knew the truth. He knew it was his fault. And he hated himself for it. It was one of those moments where Shawn, the Shawn that had been rebuilt from ashes in Mexico, slipped back into New Shawn mode; it was a moment when Shawn hated, hated, _hated _something so fiercely he thought he would die.

He had sent an exhausted Gus home to bed, not wanting his friend around for his, hopefully, brief descent into a world of New Shawn/Old Shawn that he thought he had left behind. His friend needed sleep, and he would find none of that worrying himself sick at the side of his best friend's hospital bed.

The door opened and Shawn looked up, ready to chide Gus for not listening to him. His father stood in the doorway and all of the words in Shawn's mouth turned to dust, settling on his tongue and rendering him temporarily mute.

"Well, Shawn. are you happy now?" Shawn felt like he was falling rapidly through time, transported back to the worst ages of his life. "Your foolish escapades nearly killed Lassiter. And it's all your fault."

Shawn blinked, unsure if he was dreaming or not. "After all these years, and you still haven't learned your lesson yet kid? You can't screw around with other people's lives!" Shawn found that his vocal chords wouldn't work. He could not speak a word. "You have to learn responsibility! You threw your chances to be a cop down the drain, so stop playing at it now before you get yourself or someone else killed. Lassiter is the one with the badge, the one with the power. You're just some jumped up pretend-cop, a kid screwing around where he doesn't belong!"

Now Shawn didn't want to say anything. The hate was back, burning more strongly than ever before, a wild fire directed inwards and outwards, towards himself and towards _that man_. "Get out," was all he could muster.

_That man_ shook his head in disgust. "Screw up your own life next time, Shawn."

Shawn's back was rigid. "I said, _get out_," he hissed. _That man _shook his head and stomped out, leaving Shawn in his hospital bed feeling as though the floor had dropped out beneath him.

Trembling Shawn got out of the hospital bed and found his clothes, pulling them on and grabbing the rest of his possessions. There were bloodstains on his shirt and jeans, both his and Lassiter's blood, but he pulled them on anyway, biting his lip to keep from yelping when he raised his arms, and then gingerly pulled on his jacket, wincing as it went over his stitches. Looking in a mirror he noticed that his lip was cut and the side of his face was beginning to darken into an angry bruise, but it couldn't be helped. He zipped up his jacket to cover the bloodstains to the best of his ability, then stuck his head out into the hallway and looked around. A few doctors bustled by with harried expressions and a nurse went through the hallway, turning into one of the rooms, but there was no one who would stop him.

Putting on a confident, I-know-exactly-where-I'm-going Shawn turned down the corridor towards the exit. After his many times in the hospital he practically had a blueprint of the building in his mind. He passed by a few nurses, catching their eye and smiling and nodding without even slowing down. One of them took off after him. "Excuse me, sir?"

Shawn turned towards her. "Yes?" Her eyes traveled from the bloodstains on his jeans to his bruised face; he put on sheepish expression. "My friend fell off a ladder while putting up Christmas decorations and I tried to catch him. Didn't work to well, he smacked my right in the face and landed in one of the holly bushes. I've had a bit of first-aid training so I took care of the bleeding while his wife drove us to the hospital. He's fine, just a couple of stitches and a bump on the head, no real harm. I'm going to home to change out of these clothes." The nurse nodded and smiled.

"Drive careful, sir."

"Yes m'am. Don't want to end up in a cot next to old Sam there." He nodded politely to her and walked through the doors into the bright December afternoon. Thrusting his hands in his pockets he walked around the side of the building parking, his heart pounding, his head aching, his breath quick, and feeling as though he were in _It's a Wonderful Life _and the floor was about to open and swallow him up and he would just sink and sink and drown.

Pausing to lean against the wall he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit his speed dial number four button.

"Santa Barbara City Cab, how can I help you?"

"Yes, I need a cab at the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, please. I'll be outside of the emergency room."

"Right away sir. We'll have someone there in ten minutes. Can I take your name?"

Shawn hesitated. "Burton Guster," he finally said.

Shawn hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket then tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

_"Are you happy now?" _

_"Screw up your own life next time." _

_"It wasn't your fault Shawn." _

_"Get out of the way Shawn!" _

_"You still haven't learned your lesson, have you Shawn?" _

_"A kid screwing around where he doesn't belong…." _

_"It's all your fault." _

_"It's all your fault." _

_"It's all your fault." _

Shawn whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his hands over his ears, trying to block out the voices that resounded in his own mind. But they just kept coming faster, a blur of Gus and Lassiter and _that man_, his mother and Karen and even his own voice.

_"I hate him." _

_"I hate him." _

_I hate him. _

Shawn hated and he couldn't stand it. The sound of a car pulling up made him open his eyes; he peered around the corner to see a yellow cab waiting. Shawn approached the cab and pulled open the door, sliding in and biting the inside of his cheek to deal with the pain. The cab driver looked back at him. "Mr. Guster?" Shawn nodded. "Where are we going?" Shawn pretended that the cab driver's eyes didn't flicker to the bruise on his cheek or the bloodstain on his jeans.

"West Beach, the corner of West Cabrillo and State Street."

The cab driver nodded and turned back, shifting gears and taking off through the parking lot, turning onto one familiar street after another. Shawn stared blankly out the window, not really seeing anything that went by. He could still hear the voices, still feel the hate that coursed through his veins, still feel the anger hot on his skin; his arm and his rib hurt and he felt woozy and the pain killers were completely gone and he couldn't help but feel that he deserved it because, after all, it was his fault.

The cab slowed to a stop and Shawn found himself blinking at the ocean and the familiar street. "We're here, Mr. Guster. That'll be ten-oh-five." Shawn pulled a ten dollar bill and a nickel from his wallet and handed it over then nodded his head to the driver. "Have a good day, sir!" The driver said as Shawn closed the door behind him.

A good day. Yeah right.

The yellow cab pulled away, leaving Shawn standing on the sidewalk, with the beach and the ocean and the ocean breeze. He walked down the street; he could see the Psych office just a little ways down but every step seemed to take more out of him than he would have expected.

His bike was waiting in Psych's parking lot and the light around it seemed a little bit brighter, as if it were calling to him. Shawn ran a loving hand over the handle bar's as he passed. He fumbled in his pocket for his office key and then triumphantly unlocked the door, pushing it open. He flipped on the light switch and headed for his desk. He pulled open the bottom drawer and stared at the contents.

For a moment Shawn bit his lip. Did he really want to…_"Learned your lesson yet, Shawn?" _

He pulled the black backpack out of the drawer. It was heavy, containing everything that he needed to survive: extra clothes, his passport, bottles of water, extra cash, two credit cards, a copy of his birth certificate, a cell phone charger, granola bars, a GPS, a first-aid kit, a copy of his insurance card, aspirin, batteries, a book of Sudoku puzzles, a small notebook, pens, and assorted small items. He grabbed his iPod off of the desk and his portable charger and shoved them both in one of the compartments, then took a final glance around the room.

_"Screw up your own life next time." _

Shawn slung the backpack over his good shoulder and head for the door, pausing to flip off the lights. As the darkness settled over the office Shawn turned around. "See ya Gus." He said to the empty room, his voice echoing. "Don't come looking."

Shawn headed out into the sunny afternoon and didn't look back.

* * *

Nurse Kathy Marson was having a relatively good day. Relatively because a cop had come in early and was only now getting out of surgery; good because it had been quiet otherwise and her shift was almost over. She could go home, pick her son up from school, and have an early evening, something that didn't normally happen. Maybe she could even get some online Christmas shopping done. 

Humming quietly beneath her breath Kathy walked down the hall to check on patient Shawn Spencer. He'd been brought in with the cop, treated for a laceration on his upper left arm and a cracked rib. The guy had a medical file three inches thick and Kathy shook her head, tsking. She'd had patients like him before, people who just couldn't stay out of trouble.

Well, at least he was the last one for the day. Steeling herself Kathy entered the room and found…nothing.

Kathy blinked at the empty bed and turned towards the bathroom. The door was open and there was no one in it. "Mr. Spencer?" she called. There was no answer. The sheets on the bed were thrown back but, when she placed a hand on the bed, she found that it was cold. There were no possessions anywhere to be found.

She stared around the room once more before walking out into the hallway. "Has anyone seen my patient?" she asked, desperate with the sudden knowledge that no, she wasn't going to get home early and no, she wasn't going to get any Christmas shopping done. Other doctors and nurses paused to shake their heads, staring at her. But Kathy already knew.

Shawn Spencer was gone.


	3. Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers and I'm sorry I haven't reply to you yet. Enjoy this chapter, and Chapter Three is already finished and should be up soon. I just have to edit it. I'm sorry if any of the information pertaining to Santa Barbara is wrong; I looked everything up and did my best to make sure it was accurate, but, having never been to Santa Barbara, I have no personal experience to go on.

Reviews make wonderful presents, all bright and shiny and wrapped up with pretty bows!

Disclaimer: If I didn't own it in the last chapter then I still don't own it.

_Chapter Two_

Gus was just stepping out of the shower when his phone rang. He'd scrubbed his skin raw trying to wash away the blood—_Lassiter's blood, Shawn's blood, blood on his clothes, blood on the carpet, Shawn's face pale, Lassiter's face even paler, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—_and had tossed his clothes into his hamper, never wanting to see them again. When he heard the phone ring he wrapped a towel around himself and ran for it.

"Hello?"

"Is this Burton Guster?"

"Yes." Gus said.

"This is the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital." Gus felt dizzy and had to sit on his bed. What could be wrong now? Had Lassiter…Gus couldn't even bear to think it. Or had something gone wrong with Shawn? Was his wound infected? Had his crack rib punctured some vital organ? "You are listed as one of Shawn Spencer's emergency contacts."

"Yes. What's wrong with him? His injuries weren't serious when I left—," he was starting to babble the way he did when he was nervous.

"As far as we know nothing serious is wrong with Mr. Spencer." Gus heaved a sigh of relief and then stopped. There was something wrong with that statement….

"As far as you know?"

There was a pause and then a cough. "We seem to have, ah, misplaced Mr. Spencer."

"What, precisely, do you mean, misplaced?"

"A nurse went in to check on him and Mr. Spencer was missing. We checked the security tapes; he walked right out of the hospital."

"And no one bothered to stop him?"

"Well…apparently one of the nurses stopped him and he said his friend had been hurt while putting up Christmas decorations and he was just going home to change."

Gus closed his eyes. _Dammit Shawn. _"Thank you. I'll find him."

"Mr. Guster? Please make sure that he doesn't harm himself. It wouldn't be hard for him to rip his stitches or further injure his ribs." Gus knew. Oh how he knew. Shawn couldn't take care of himself; that job had always fallen to Gus except on those occasions when Shawn was off in who-knows-where.

"I understand. Good bye." Gus hung up the phone and pounded his fists on the bed. "God dammit Shawn!" He shook his head. "Not this time. You aren't running again."

After more than twenty years of friendship—and everything else that their relationship was—Gus knew how Shawn operated. There was a chance, just a chance mind you, that Shawn was collapsed in his living room or passed out in the Psych office. It was a slim chance, but Gus needed to know for certain that Shawn was gone before he sprang into action.

He didn't even bother to check Shawn's apartment. Shawn slept there—when he wasn't invading Gus' apartment—ate there, showered there, and spent as little time there as he could manage. The only reason he kept it rather than just moving in with Gus was because he liked his privacy and he liked being able to run. Instead he headed straight for Psych.

The moment Gus pulled into the parking lot he knew. Shawn's prized, jet black motorcycle, which had been sitting proudly in the parking lot this morning, was gone. Gus opened the office. A faint waft of Shawn's cologne hit him the moment he stepped in and it was still fresh. The bottom drawer of Shawn's desk was partially open and Gus felt all his hopes slip away. When he opened it there was no black backpack—and Gus was suddenly struck by Shawn's affinity for black things when he was running away—and Gus knew that he was gone.

Shawn had stopped for a bathroom and burger break—realizing that the banana he'd eaten for breakfast had long since been dissolved by his stomach acid and the bottle of water he'd chugged was pressing urgently on his bladder—and had just slid painstakingly into a hard plastic booth, a red tray in hand, when his phone rang. He looked at the Caller I.D.—Gussie-pants—and hesitated. Gus wouldn't be calling if he didn't already know.

Realizing that he'd be in more trouble if he didn't answer the phone Shawn clicked the green button on his phone. "Hey Gus."

"Hello Shawn," Gus' voice said in an agonizingly calm way. Old Shawn and New Shawn were at war within Shawn's head; one wanted to roll over and beg for forgiveness, the other seethed with anger and resentment and guilt. "Having a nice day? You mind telling me why you're at a rest stop on the way to San Fransisco?"

Shawn swallowed, feeling panic well up within him. _No, no, no. _It was his fault and he couldn't go back, he hated too much there, he feared too much, he screwed up too many lives. There was too much there, too fucking much. He wasn't going back, not any time soon.

"How—?"

"GPS locator in your phone." Shawn resolved to dump the phone at the next available opportunity. "And Shawn, I swear to god if you throw away that phone I will throttle you." _Too bad Gus_, thought New Shawn, _'cuz I'm not keeping it. _"Shawn, come home."

"No can do, Gussie. It's time for a change. I'll send you a postcard." _I always do_, Old Gus chimed in. Shawn, just plain old Shawn, began to wonder if he had Multiple-Personality Disorder, a demon on one shoulder and an angel on the other, or was just seriously fucked up in the head.

"You're hurt. You ran away from the hospital. The doctors didn't even discharge you! You aren't even out AMA! You have a cracked rib, if you don't remember." Oh, he remembered. It hurt like a bitch with every breath he took, with every bite he swallowed, with every word he spoke, with every bump on the road, with every single movement he made. God, he wanted nothing more than to lie down in a soft bed, preferably Gus' bed. But no.

"I remember Gus. I'm fine. It's just a crack, just a little break."

"And I guess that laceration on your arm is just a scratch?"

"There you go Gus. You've got it now."

Shawn heard Gus' fist impact whatever surface he was near, something hard. He heard a muffled curse and smiled despite himself.

"Shawn. Come home, please." He'd said the dreaded P-word. Old Shawn would have caved. New Shawn would have told him to fuck off. Shawn who was straddling the middle of Old and New had no idea what to do.

"I can't."

"What happened to make you run?"

Shawn shut down completely. "I'll see you in a couple of weeks Gus."

"Shawn, don't you dare hang up on me!" Shawn hesitated for a second longer.

"Bye Gus." There was a wealth of unspoken meaning behind those two words: Fuck you, love you, and everything in between.

Shawn hung up the phone and placed it on the table. He flipped it open and pressed the power button, turning it off. He was fairly certain that the signal couldn't be tracked if the phone wasn't on, but he should dump it anyway. His hand tightened around the phone. Gus had given it to him—probably for the specific reason of being able to track him but Shawn ignored that little fact—and Shawn wanted to keep a phone in case of emergency. With a sigh he tucked it in his pocket and pushed away his half-eaten burger, knowing that the food would taste like ash in mouth.

Wiping his hands on his jeans he stood with a wince and dumped his trash. Then he headed back out to his bike, cramming his head into his helmet and starting it up. He straddled the bike, hands on the handle bars, staring at the road. Then he turned out the way he had come. He followed it back a few miles before taking an exit. San Fransisco was a no go, so it would have to be somewhere else. Somewhere that he could disappear, somwhere where he had connections. He didn't really care where, just so long as it was a long way away from Santa Barbara.

Gus stared at the phone in his hand and cursed. "Damn you Shawn Spencer." He whispered, not for the first time, not for the last time in the span of twenty four hours. He rested his head on his desk, forehead pressed against the cool wood. In the past he'd always let Shawn run, but…Gus stood up, knocking his chair over in the process.

"No." He announced. "No."

Gus turned for the door. It was time to take drastic measures.


	4. Chapter Three

A/N: At long last here is the third chapter of Smashed! I'm sorry it's taken so long, but I was having trouble with this, and I'm having trouble with the next chapter too, so there will probably be quite a wait for the fourth chapter too. I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, but I can't really think of anything to do to fix it. Oh well. Shawn's starting to come off as having multiple personalities, isn't it? Maybe he does; I'm not even sure myself. Enjoy and remember to review. (By the way, I know that I never reply to reviews and I'm a terrible person for it. I will, eventually, get around to replying to all of you, and its not that I'm not grateful because I am. Reviews make me the happiest person in the world. I just happen to be lazy, that's all.)

Disclaimer: If you haven't caught on by now, I don't own Psych.

_Chapter Three_

When Gus marched into the police station sans Shawn, something that happened only rarely, and headed straight for the Chief's office without even pausing to smile at his officer friends, everyone knew that something was wrong. He rapped on the Chief's door and entered without waiting for permission. Karen was on the phone but when she looked up and saw his face she made an excuse and dropped the phone back in its cradle.

"Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but I need your help."

"What's wrong?" She asked, her expression tired and resigned.

"Shawn's gone." She blinked at him.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"He's gone. Fifteen minutes ago he was about thirty miles north, headed to San Francisco. Now I have no idea where he's going."

"Why?"

Gus frowned and collapsed into one of Karen's chairs. "I don't know why." He buried his head in his hands. "I don't know. He wasn't okay when I left the hospital but I thought it would just be a quick slip. He doesn't like me around for them, not after the first time." Karen frowned in confusion but Gus ignored her expression and kept babbling. "And I knew he was guilty about Lassi—," Karen winced, thinking about the detective. "How is he, by the way?"

"His surgery went well, though he hasn't woken up yet. He'll be recuperating for a long time and he'll have to go through physical therapy, but so long as infection doesn't set in he should be fine. Shawn was guilty?"

"Is guilty." Gus said, looking up. "I knew he was guilty and upset and angry at himself and definitely slipping into New Shawn/Old Shawn mode, but he shouldn't have run. He should have been just fine. Unless…." Gus trailed off. "Oh God dammit. Henry." Karen frowned again, deeper, as Gus buried his head into his hands.

"What do you need from me, Gus?"

Gus looked up, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need you to put out an APB on Shawn. Make sure that no one pick's him up or even approaches him, but make sure that if he collapses somewhere he'll be taken care of. Just keep tabs on him and tell me where the hell he's going so that I can get him."

Karen looked hesitant. "Do you normally do this? Is there some secret how-to guide for chasing Shawn Spencer?"

Gus looked her straight in the eye. "There is a how-to guide. It's me. But normally I let him get it out of his system. Normally he isn't hurt though, and normally he isn't running from whatever he's running from. In this condition—I know that he's spiraling—I need to find him and bring him home as soon as possible. Please, Chief."

She hesitated a moment longer then nodded. "Okay." She picked up the phone. "Once you bring him back, Mr. Guster, you are going to have to explain everything you just said." Gus smiled wearily.

"There's no explaining Shawn. Trust me." His eyes took on a flinty look. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and have a talk with a certain ex-cop."

Karen Vick had never been even the least bit intimidated by Burton Guster. He was just not the kind of person that you would be frightened of. But, looking in his eyes at that moment, Karen felt that she was looking at an entirely different person, and couldn't help but feel the slightest bit of pity for Henry Spencer. Then, when Gus left the room and she put the phone to her ear, remembering what she had to do, all of that pity went sweeping away.

* * *

Henry Spencer answered the door wearing an apron and an irritated look, a bottle of beer in one hand, a carving fork in the other. Gus' eyes flickered to the sharp utensil and then back up, his expression flinty. "Hello, Mr. Spencer," he said in the same calm but hostile way that he'd greeted Shawn on the phone.

Henry knew that something was wrong; his eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

Gus gave a short laugh. "What happened…that's a good question, Mr. Spencer." Henry stepped back to let the other man into his house. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"Gus," Henry growled, putting the beer and carving fork down and folding his arms across his chest.

"Shawn's gone." Gus ground out. "He ran."

Henry scowled. "Checked himself out AMA?"

"No. Just left."

"Where is he?"

Gus shrugged. "I have no idea. He was headed towards San Francisco; he's most likely not now. What the hell did you do?"

"What makes you think I did something?"

"The only time he runs like this is when you've royally screwed up. You are the only person who has ever been able to affect him so much." Henry looked away.

"I might have been a little harsh but—"

"Damn you Henry Spencer." Gus cut in. "You always go on about how he doesn't think, but the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" He spat. He turned and stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Henry stared at the door and then turned his back, picking up his beer and taking a swig of it. Shawn would find his way back. He always did. Henry sat down to his pot roast and lifted his fork, then paused, closed his eyes and shook his head, and pushed the plate away. He threw his fork down and grabbed his coat instead.

"Dammit." His curse resounded through the empty house before the door slammed a second time.

* * *

On a normal day Shawn could drive for hours, but by just after six Shawn was forced to stop. He pulled into a motel parking lot; it wasn't anything expensive or fancy, probably not even rating half-a-star, but it had a bed and a bathroom and, if the sheets weren't clean, at least he'd probably slept on worse at some point. It took more energy than he had to even get off his bike, tears biting at the corners of his eyes as sharp pain tore through him. He stayed for a few moments, leaning against his bike and breathing deeply.

He mustered his strength and stumbled into the lobby, forked over a wad of cash, thanked God that seedy motels had a 'no questions asked' policy, and somehow made his way to his room, where he collapsed on his bed. After a few moments of rummaging in his bag he found his bottle of aspirin and popped two of the pills, following them down with a bottle of water. He contemplated turning on his phone and calling Gus—just to check on Lassi, he told himself—and decided against it. Gus would jump in his car—the Psychmobile—and drive four hours to sleep, complaining, in the seedy motel bed with him and then drag him back in the morning. It wasn't happening.

Gus would understand though. He always did. He'd been dragged on enough trips—_Mexico, with the sun and the tequila and the bright water that you couldn't drink without a death wish, the first place, the first trip, the place to hit rock bottom so that Gus, and liberal amounts of booze, could bring him up—_to understand Shawn's flight mechanism.

Shawn waited for the aspirin to kick in and the pain to abate; aspirin was no morphine with its golden glow but it was still something.

_"It's all your fault." _

"Shut up." Shawn said to the emptiness around him. He wasn't in Santa Barbara anymore; the guilt and the anger and the hate and the hurt could just slip away and leave as Shawn, just Shawn, happy Shawn that everyone knew and, well, if not loved at least tolerated.

Stripping down to his boxers Shawn crawled under the sheets, perfectly aware that it was barely six o'clock at night and just not caring. He closed his eyes, against the pain, against the whispering voices of his guilt, against the hate—God, he didn't want to hate—against _that man_, against Gus, against New Shawn and Old Shawn and every Shawn in between. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against the images from the morning, images that his stupid, fucking memory couldn't and wouldn't forget, tried to block out the sound and taste and feel and smell and sight of the blood—was it his blood or was it Lassi's blood?—and when was the aspirin going to kick in?

Shawn closed his eyes and shut out the world and tried, for a brief moment in time, to forget; to just forget anything and everything. By the time the clock struck six-thirty he was lost in the unshakable, dead-tired sleep of a man who has demons on his tail and a the weight of the sky bearing down on his shoulders, and not even his restless, dark dreams could wake him.

* * *

Juliet O'Hara sat in a chair next to her partner's bed, her head resting ever so gently—she wasn't sleeping, she swore—on his cot. Lassiter had woken for a few brief moments—too brief for him to even comprehend anything around him, to brief to even be counted as consciousness—when he'd gotten out of surgery, but he hadn't woken since then. Yawning Juliet took a look at her watch. It was almost eight and she should probably go call Shawn to see if he was okay, since she hadn't even made sure he was okay earlier, but she couldn't bring herself to leave Lassiter's side.

He'd been so pale, and the blood…Juliet knew that she should be used to the blood and she was, just not when it was seeping out of her partner's body and staining everything it touched. It hadn't just been blood; it had been life. She'd watched as his life had started slipping away.

God, she never wanted to see something like that ever again.

A slight movement made her look up. Lassiter moved a little and then groaned. "Sweet Justice that hurts." He opened his eyes and Juliet grinned.

"Glad to see you're awake." Lassiter moved more and bit his lip. "Hold on," Juliet said. She stuck her head out into the hallway. "Excuse me, nurse?" One of them paused. "He's awake."

She bustled in and dosed him with morphine as one of the doctors entered. He looked at Juliet. "Family?"

Juliet pulled out her badge. "Partner. Do you need me to go away?"

"If you wouldn't mind." Juliet nodded and made her way out into the hallway, where she lingered rather than returning to the waiting room. A few minutes later the doctor emerged and tilted his head in her direction. She took that as a signal to return and re-entered the room. Lassiter was sitting up, a cup of ice chips on the table.

"Sit, O'Hara, and tell me what the hell happened."

* * *

Gus stared around his bedroom. He'd been there earlier, when the hospital had called, but he hadn't taken the time to look around. Half of the bed—his half—was neatly made, the other half a riot of jumbled sheets. Half of the clothes in his closet were neatly pressed and dry cleaned suits, dress pants, and button down shirts; the other half was a riot of brightly-colored t-shirts and everything from shorts to jeans to a single pair of nice pants. Gus collapsed onto the bed, his face buried into an orange pillow. Shawn's scent was ingrained in it.

The phone rang and Gus wearily picked it up. "Hello?"

"Mr. Guster, it's Chief Vick."

"Oh! Chief, any news on Shawn?"

"That's what I'm calling about, Gus. A traffic cop spotted his motorcycle in the parking lot of a motel in Hodge, CA." Gus groaned. "What? Is that bad?"

"Only if he gets to where he's going."

"Where is he going?"

Gus inhaled Shawn's scent and tried to calm himself. "Vegas." He reached under his bed and pulled out a red duffle bag. "Listen, Chief, thanks for the information. I've got to go."

"Go where?"

"Shawn," was Gus' only reply before he hung up the phone and dropped it on the bed.

* * *

Reviews? Yes, please? 


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